


Samson in a Field of Golden Cloth

by Tosa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, references to sex and violence but nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosa/pseuds/Tosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If only they could talk about their feelings like normal people... Maybe then Francis wouldn't have gone and cut off all of his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samson in a Field of Golden Cloth

" _And the history books forgot about us,_

_..._

_...didn't mention us... not even once"_

-Regina Spektor, "Samson"

  
  


I loved you first.

The words stayed on his lips. There they became stale, decayed, and ultimately crumbled. They would have hardly changed anything, anyway.

 

 

Francis could recall countless hours he'd spent basking in the incendiary hues of the infant dawn, his breath just barely grazing the tips of Arthur's hair, and it quivered. That was something he admired about Arthur; that he could sleep like the dead, even baring the nightmares Francis knew he had. Francis had ones similar, though not quite it; in his, there were Romanesque columns appearing from nowhere and aiming to crush him. As they fell, the building they supported began to crumble, with pieces falling from a ceiling he couldn't see, as it was too high up, engulfed in the shadows of the eaves.

Arthur stirred, blinked, and then caught sight of Francis. He kept his reaction hidden well enough, but in any case, Francis could tell he felt quite the same about what Francis had done as he had yesterday when he first saw him.

"Last night was..." England cleared his throat, "...appropriate."

Francis smiled cheekily at him. "And my new haircut isn't."

"Haircut? You've massacred it! I still can't believe you did that to your head!"

Francis shrugged. It bothered him, of course, but he hadn't done it for himself. "I was just imitating the English style."

Arthur looked insulted. "Pray, which English?"

Francis was finding it increasingly difficult to smile at Arthur. The entire reason he'd done it, and he had told the other man this, was because his king had told him to make a show of their alliance, to do something that would show the English they were welcome. After struggling to keep his bearings, the other nation had told him, upon first seeing it, "He probably meant throwing a ball, you twat."

Arthur was still looking at him with some concern. Francis deflected his expression with a laugh, running his hand through his hair, surprising himself yet again when it wasn't as long as he was used to it being. Was it honestly that bad?

"Really," Arthur sighed, getting up. As he spoke, he moved across the room, deftly slipping on his clothing as he went. "Being French, being the embodiment of France, I thought you'd do a much better job." He was forced to pause as he rooted through something in his sewing basket. "You're always bragging..."

"I was a little drunk," Francis confessed. Then he saw several spools of thread fall out and realized what Arthur was looking in. Incredulously, he asked, "Are you going to knit me a sweater?"

"No, I - hah!" Triumphant, Arthur pulled out what he'd been searching for.

Francis eyed the scissors with apprehension. "What exactly are you going to do with those?"

"What do you think?" Arthur snorted. "Fixing up that mess you made, is what."

When the Englishman moved towards him, Francis backed up. He put up his hands, only half-joking, in defense. "I'm sorry, Arthur, but given our history, I can't allow you to get that close to my head with a sharp object."

In response, Arthur rolled his eyes and grabbed Francis by the ear. "Lean down, and don't struggle. Don't want to make it worse, do you?"

The next several minutes were spent in silence. Francis was slightly perplexed by the amount of hair he still had left to be removed. Just then, a thought occurred to him; though Arthur may not go so far as to stab him with the scissors, did he have any qualms against rendering him bald?

He voiced this, and Arthur laughed. "And piss off Henry? Absolutely not, though it would make excellent revenge for what you've done to my hair."

Francis frowned. He tilted his head backwards to look up at Arthur. "Your hair?"

Arthur's cutting hand jolted. "Don't move so suddenly! And yes. Don't you remember? We were children, then. You got me all jealous over your stupid French hair and offered to cut it so it would suit me. Then you went and made it look like it always did."

Francis laughed. "I remember now!"

"Just as well, you old crone," Arthur said briskly. "You made me so damn angry over that silly haircut - and after it took so long to grow! I'm sure I hated you for months after that..."

Francis was sure Arthur was anticipating a sneering insult from him in return, but what he got instead was something far worse. "I didn't know it bothered you that much. I'm sorry."

It slipped out before Francis could remember that they weren't supposed to talk to each other like this, like equals, like... not enemies. Which, ironically, they were now supposed to be.

Arthur's hands stilled in their ministrations and he became silent. Francis glanced over his shoulder to find that the other nation's face had grown oddly morose. Well, oddly for ordinary people, amongst whom apologies were acceptable. Not oddly for them, the emotionally crippled.

"...you prick."

Francis hated himself for adding it. Still, the remark seemed to have allowed the great breath of tension that had been hanging about them release itself in a sigh of relief. Arthur resumed his trimming Francis's hair with a certain liveliness.

"Same old frog," Arthur said. Yet there was something in his tone, even beneath the usual amount of scorn, that made him sound... disappointed. Francis was about ready to impale himself on Arthur's scissors for being so stupid when a still to their clickings signaled they had ceased their motion. "Have a look," Arthur said, shoving him towards the nearest mirror.

The sight was not as alarming as Francis would have thought. He turned his head this way and that, all the while pondering how a person with so scraggly a head of hair as Arthur's had learned to cut other people's so well. Francis wondered if it had to do with growing up as poor as the British Isles had. Then again, Arthur's brothers looked the type to just yank chunks of hair out, as opposed to wasting time and effort on a presentable trim.

He found Arthur to be looking at him with a strangely blank expression. Before either of them had realized what he was doing, Arthur's hands were up, cupping the sides of Francis's face. The cool hardness of the blades was heightened in contrast to the soft warmth of Arthur's palms, and Francis had to fight not to close his eyes and lean into the touch with a moan.

He decided to preserve their usual front with a smirk. "Those are rather cold."

Arthur didn't make a reaction suggesting he'd heard him. "Your curls are all gone."

"Casualties in the 'massacre', I suppose."

"You don't look like you," Arthur went on, frowning. Then, blushing darkly, "Which I-I like, of course. I'm sick of looking at your same stupid face all the time."

He let Francis go then, but not without brushing his fingers along his cheek as he did so. To anyone but the one receiving the action, it would have gone unnoticed. Francis made no comment on it.

Arthur was walking away, and before Francis's very eyes, things began to shift back to the way they had always been. "Henry will be looking for me. You should fix yourself up and get going, as well."

Arthur was making a point not to stay for the duration of this fixing. He left Francis in a room that stretched out before him like a terrible ruse; Francis noticed a lack of any sign that Arthur inhabited it, its decorations lavish and Spanish. He doubted that Arthur had had much to do with its rendering.

Francis wondered why this bothered him.

 

 

Sex for them was always preceded by papers, signings, handshakes made without their consent and without their knowledge until the moment they were pushed towards each other and expected to consummate it. They had kissed one another's mouths and sheathed their blades in one another's flesh.

This time was no different. In less than a year, Henry would turn his back on the budding alliance, making it perhaps one of the least significant instances between the two in history. No wonder it had burned its way behind Francis's eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic I wrote in 2010 where I thought being vague in my author's notes would be really cool but it wasn't. So, let me explain some historical context, as well as some symbolic stuff you can look for later:  
> 1) The political bargain being carried out is a reference to a meeting between King Henry VIII of England and King Francis I of France. The place they met was dubbed “Field of the Cloth of Gold,” hence the title of the fic. The meeting, according to wikipedia, “was arranged to increase the bond of friendship between the two kings following the Anglo-French treaty of 1514. ... It would be the last meeting between an English or British monarch and a French one until Queen Victoria met with King Louis Philippe I”.  
> There's a lot moe that me and my dear friend wikipedia could tell you about this meeting, but the main point, highlighted at the end of this fic, is that “its political results were very small.”  
> 2) A big headcanon of the Hetalia fandom (or just me?) is that nations having sex post-treaty is supposed to symbolize the coming together of the two nations politically. What this fic aims to point out is, if even the nations' sex lives are political, if every aspect of their lives is forced to be symbolic, then the existence they lead is bound to be very painful and difficult. It's impossible to form true emotional bonds with people so long as your king/president/what have you is constantly ordering you to break ties with him, and sleep with her, and murder all of these people over here.  
> 3) The second source of the fic's title is from, as you may gather from the quote, Regina Spektor's song “Samson.” The fic 's “plot” (if you can really claim it has one) also strives to mirror the events of the song, as well as to symbolically cast England and France in the roles of Delilah and Samson in the original Biblical context.  
> 4) I'm still really proud of this fic. It's not perfect, but it definitely marks a turning point in my writing ability.


End file.
